


Revelation

by kuugeki (strangestirony)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (hinted) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lovecraftian, Unreliable Narrator, Worldbuilding, gabriel is still a jackass, incomprehensible monster thing that even the author can’t explain, ish, this is why we can’t have nice things, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 21:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20216461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestirony/pseuds/kuugeki
Summary: “And the devil, who deceived them, was thrown into the lake of burning sulfur, where the beast and the false prophet had been thrown. They will be tormented day and night for ever and ever.”—Revelation 20:10





	Revelation

**Author's Note:**

> This... was, Uhm, something I wrote at 3 am, instead of sleeping and it’s a fucking mistake this is what this is. I have no idea what this is, please forgive me. 
> 
> (No beta.)

Things happen, and then they don't. In the grand scheme of things, most events won't matter. 

In the future, a little angel, who's love had gave more, than the angel had taken, would take note of every little thing, from the first star, the first planet, the first asteroid—the little things that one would come to appreciate with time and awareness, but all too insignificant. The Fall of Rome, the Assassination of Abraham Lincoln, the start of World War I—s_aid to be the War that ended all Wars, guess World War II didn't get the memo_—the creation of a Demon, the falling of an Angel.

Everything will wash away with time, and forgetfulness. Memories held dear will be snuffed out, like smoke expelling into the air, wafting and drifting away. Or a breath on a mirror, gone in an moment—insignificant and trivial. History held to chastise those in the future, a large echo to remind them of mistakes—long forgotten, buried under a sheen of white, searing into the metaphorical skull, which would bleed out from the eyelids and bathe everything into nothing.

That is the action of God, who plays every game, and no game. Who follows all the rules, and no rules. God, who plays a game of her own devising, following a plan, so ineffable, it contradicts at every nook and cranny. God, who will strike with an iron fist—a metaphor, yet to be recognized and used by the future Human race—at a lone angel. An angel forgotten through time, insignificant and small—trivial. But, God is not simple. Nothing is simple.

Simple, is complicated.

* * *

The first to fall, recognized and remembered, echoing through the white depth of _Heaven_ is called the Morningstar. Xe_¹_ is the first to fall in the eternity that had lapsed since the last. In burning defiance, twisted rage and frozen scorn. Manipulated through eons of whispers, in the depths of xir conscience, like small limbs of shadows, bleeding out into space—where the light cannot and will not shine unto. That is the act of insignificance.

The Morningstar—_who burned the brightest, who still burns the brightest, where the light of a billion suns cannot even compare_—falls like a man at a lost with betrayal. It is beautiful. He falls into burning sulfur, screams for another eternity, as his brilliant, white wings wither and fray, bones turning into color of tar, feathers falling off like the hair of a cancer patient. He burns like a Red Giant, loss of all faith and goodness, molded into the stigma of turning against their Lord. Soon, his followers follow into the pit of eternal suffering, as they're cleansed of all purity, bathing in liquid sin, and falls into the deep below, of nothingness, of the dark, of _it_.

The Morningstar, Samael, _Light-Bringer_, is, but a puppet on a string. Lax in control and not stiff, but there. In the grand scheme of things, _all_ things are, but dolls in God's playhouse. Perhaps, _it_ is too. _It_ is aware of that, it boils in anger, fluctuating and rippling in rage, at the thought, but it knows. In deep irony, it believes. It is nothing more than a puppet, in God's great Ineffable Plan, always in motion, always incomprehensible, to everybody, but God, herself.

Samael arrives in wounded ego, and full glory. It waits for him, whispers quelling to a silence in the presence of the Morningstar, in faux obedience. The Morningstar—Lucifer, sits on his throne of flames and nimble bones, forever enveloped in darkness and sin, as his underlings bow to their new master, to their new God.

It watches in deep fascination and amusement. The hubris of an Archangel, the brightest of all Angels—the second coming of a Seraph. Snuffed, unaware—ignorant. _It_ is possibly gleeful.

Lucifer gathers his soldiers, army, built with a kingdom of darkness and lies—and strikes, once more unto the bright, white nation of God's little knights. A dichotomy of black and white, oil and water—sin and purity. Sometimes, it wonders with curiosity if the Morningstar, who sits upon his throne of shadowed madness, of burning eternity and sins, remembers.

He doesn't.

* * *

They say the End is only the Beginning. To a point, _they_ are correct. When one thing withers away, decrepit and forgotten, another blooms from a flash of white, promises of life and energy, only to be sucked away again in darkness and decay. It is an endless cycle that will never stop. Because nothing lives forever. The End is the Beginning as the Beginning will become the End.

That is how the Second Heaven has begun. As the First, a mass of white and _nothingeverything_ washed away, as all consciousness, of everything burned into nothing, the cutthroat line of where nothing began and everything ended became visible, the Second started in a mass of ignorance to the First, believing themselves to be the only, the _very_—centered and right.

_(It is a miracle in itself that nobody has questioned the quick ingenuity and mechanism, that the Fall, is. How it seamlessly seems to work, how everything seems to fall in place, as if God, herself, had planned this out, had believed they were to fall from her grace into the dying dark, of eternal madness. Then, who was it first to turn their Faith away from the other?)_

The First was bubbling of _whiteeveryingnothing_, constructed to the likeness of God, who was _everythingnothingall_. There were many, of many rankings. It was a well-oiled machine. But, all good things come to an end in time. Just as the most promising Archangel, of the Second, had been praised to be their best, had fell into the burning depths of dark madness, of liquid sin and nothing, molded into a twisted _thing_ by their stigma—the First fell too, crumbling with burning Grace, and _everythingnothing_.

The First was many, of many angels, of Cherubs, Seraphs, Angels, _Archangels_, Nephilims. Yet, they were one. They say that Angels were molded into God's likeness. _They_ weren't wrong. But, they weren't right either. The Angels, molded after the Archangels. The Archangels, an imitation of the Seraphs, which were of God's likeness.

The First was complex, the Second was simple. It guessed that God was tired of the many complications the First's system ran into with internal discord. _(It wasn't that God didn't care, it was that God had left her little ones, of the Second, to grow, of their own, unlike of the First, which tittered and watched with a hawk's precision on God's actions, mimicking and copying.)_

There were only Four. There will _only_ be Four. Never Five or Six. There may be a Fifth, or a Sixth, but only Four.

God had shaped and molded _everythingnothingallwhite_ into four Archangels. Flawed. Learning, small, grasping at everything and nothing. Michael, the first, most alike to the Seraph, then Samael, who fell to the First's whispers of eternal burning and suffering, of the Throne, which is seated in the deep, dark below, of infernal flames, liquid sins and burning sulfur. Raphael, an imitation paired with her likeness and the Seraph, into something. He fell too. And Gabriel, diligent, and mimicking, in the way the Seraph, the First was—and too naive.

They were the first Four. Michael, who stayed, in their creator's kingdom of false peace, of white purity and whispers of _rightrightright_. And Gabriel, who was too young, slowly nurtured, yet fought and came out—an asshole. _(There was no excuse, sorry.)_

Then, came in a burst silver, Uriel, mirrored after Michael. And then, there was eager-to-please Sandalphon, created from gold stardust, left by Raphael, and _everythingnothing_. Sandalphon was nothing like Raphael. Uriel was alike of Michael and nothing like Samael.

History would tell the tale of the Heavenly War, making a mark on the Second for eternities to past, and become nothing, but a fairy tale for everywhere else.

It would watch from its corner of existence, back on the deep and dark, in trepidation and amusement, spiteful under its essence, rippling with rage, caged like a bird clipped of it's wings, and everyone none the wiser. Demons taking residence in Hell, would come to find everything in a mass of ruins and completely out of order. The Beast Below, Lucifer, scarred beyond recognition, would give a rumble, ignorant and uncaring, as xe awaited for the prophesied Armageddon. 

And It would wait with xem, in its pit, everywhere, and nowhere, without faith.

* * *

The First was over in flash. Time was not a concept and everything was just in a moment, nothing right beside it. _It_ doesn't really remember, it has been _eternities_ past eternities, spanning across _eternities_. In short, _it had been too long_, to remember what It really was back then. It, had a name, like any other, before It just was. Though, it remembers in small increments, being something more. It remembers its wings, spanning from it's form, not like an Archangel's, fully humanoid. There were six of them, length and width spanning across millenniums, outside of human comprehension and just _existing_, as it surrounds the Throne of God, dripping with Ichor and gold.

Until it became aware, it became curious, just as the Second's Samael would become. Digging into archives which were fabricated after the First, looking for history buried under millenniums and eternities of propaganda, of fabricated lies and half-truths, delving into the pitch black madness and sin. Delving into First's _It_, where it waited for Samael, presenting whispers coated in thick syrups of lies and promises, of a golden throne encased in crystallized sin and burning madness, of the deep dark, hiding the strings and puppeteer.

It isn't a being with six heavenly wings, of voices echoed into oblivion and everything, that would heal every creature, bless every organism and grant every wish, floating beside God in her throne of purity and everything, hiding the deep dark below, of sin and free will, of thought, whispering _holyholyholy_ until the end of time—not anymore.

It is a being of no wings, it _is_. Encased in it's own madness and rage, trapped underneath the rows of darkness and sin. It is of many and nothing at all. It speaks in whispers of temptation, the echoes of many, and one. Of riddles and mystified secrets peppered with lies to turn friends into enemies, to turn enemies into friends. It exists in nothing, and everything. It ripples and wreathes into the depths of Oblivion, into the pits of the deepest below of Hell, in the book and cranny of every planet, of every plane of existence, in the air of Hell, in the deepest parts of Demons, whispering in it's own temptations and blasphemous lies.

_(It exists in everything. Spreading it's sins, where God spreads her jaded truths, like a parasite.)_

* * *

It remembered when, it too, had felt the pain and agony of burning sulfur, ripped apart and shredded into _everythingnothingnothindarknesseverything_, floating in the deep dark below. Just like in Heaven, where everything was of warmth, was of it's brothers and sisters, of siblings, of God. Then, it is maddening silence and darkness, absence of light, absence of everything and that _claws_ at It's mind until it unravels and it becomes It.

* * *

It was of the First and _the_ first to fall.

* * *

It whispers in Samael's mind, as ze rests, ignorant and blindly following.

* * *

And then, Samael, abandons his thrown of mad lies, of liquid sins and dark nothingness, claws upward from the dark below and the ground ruptured. And _light_, like none other before.

It giggles in glee, screeching and laughing, swirling and twisting, yet not at all. The ground breaks, the ceiling of the Below ruptured into nothingness.

Samael is gone.

* * *

It's free.

**Author's Note:**

> ¹ - Occult and Ethereal beings have no understanding of a concept as oppressive as gender unlike the humans who like to go around branding everything. 
> 
> This was sort of like, an attempt at trying to describe "Sin" itself, as a being, a conscious?
> 
> (Inspired by Lovecraftian Horror, a fanfic called, “He Had No Hands” and another called “The Dark Below.”)


End file.
